


A Photograph Of You

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 13:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6331828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bono stood up, handed the camera to Edge and leaned in close. “You bastard,” he said. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Photograph Of You

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I started this with a completely different fic in mind, and it was meant to be an angsty little ditty, and instead I ended up here. I don't even know how, but it's still fun. I had the photograph idea a while back, when Edge posted a couple of pictures on insta that made me think he might be good at it.
> 
> This is set during ZooTV era sometime, and the title comes from Depeche Mode. The lyrics don't fit, but the title does, so we'll go with that!

“Edge,” he said, and his fingers were feather-light against Edge’s arm. He sighed and finished off his glass of whiskey, then reached for the bottle. He smiled at Edge, his palm warm, clammy, and they were teetering. “Edge.” His fingers slid down slow, his thumb stirring, and it was turning dangerous. Edge watched him fill his glass, and they’d been here before. He thought maybe he should take the glass away, take a walk, sleep it off until next time. It seemed like a reasonable thought to have.

He turned his hand, watched Bono’s fingers drag slow against his skin, and he was done being reasonable. Bono smiled, took a sip and set his glass down. He leaned forward, eyes sharp, and asked, “In another life, what would you be?”

It was not the question Edge had wanted. He almost pulled his hand away, and Bono’s grip tightened briefly, his nails digging in gentle like he knew, knew Edge inside and out, and sometimes Edge wondered. “I’d still be me,” he said, and Bono shook his head. “I would.”

“You’re not playing right.” Bono stood up, hand slipping from Edge’s, and he walked the room, door to door, one foot decidedly firm in front of the other. “I used to imagine you as some sort of scientist,” he said. “Quietly saving the world in your own special way.”

“Used to?”

Bono shrugged. He turned, regarded the painting on the wall like it wasn’t a cheap hotel print but something worthy of the Louvre, and glanced over his shoulder at Edge with a raised eyebrow. “An artist.”

“That’d be you.”

“We’re all artists, Edge.” Bono leaned against the wall, shoulder bumping the painting, and he smiled at Edge. He drank from his glass and stared until Edge started to feel restless, and then he was back across the room, heading towards the bedroom. Edge got up at the sound of his suitcase being opened, and he found his clothes on the ground, his shoes pushed aside and Bono with his camera in hand. He sighed, but he couldn’t make it last. “Anton should count his lucky stars that you went and picked the guitar up first,” Bono said, and Edge rolled his eyes.

“Is that so?”

Bono grinned. “Probably not, but I like your photos all the same.” He stood up, handed the camera to Edge and leaned in close. “You bastard,” he said. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

Edge shook his head, his cheeks warming. “Bono-”

“They always look like they’re glowing, the people in your photos,” Bono murmured, his breath ghosting against Edge’s ear. “Glowing like they’re singing.” He took a step back, shrugged at Edge, and kept on walking backwards till he found the bed.

“I mostly take photographs of buildings and trees,” Edge said.

Bono laughed, and took his glass from the bedside table. “And I like them too.” He downed his drink and set the empty glass back down, then stretched out on the bed, the pillows stacked high and his shoes leaving marks against the covers. He looked at Edge and they were back there, right back to teetering over to dangerous territory.

Edge looked down, turned the camera in his hands. “What would you be?” he asked. “In another life?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bono said. He smiled at Edge, dragged his leg, raised his arm and turned his head slight, and he was right. It didn’t matter. He’d never questioned it when Anton pulled Bono away from them and kept him until well after he started to complain, though Edge was sure a part of Bono loved it. It was never the same, in a chair, on a bed, sitting or standing against a wall with his head tilted this way and that and rarely in colour, and there had been sessions that Edge had only found out about when he’d seen Bono’s face staring back at him from the cover of a magazine.

Edge thought he knew each and every face that Bono had, and he was always surprised when another one was uncovered. He had taken photos, but it had never just been the two of them in a room together. He’d never quite been brave enough to ask. “Edge.” He glanced up, and Bono was smiling at him, a drink away from being glassy eyed, Edge was sure. “I want you to.”

“Alright,” Edge said. He shifted the lamp for better light, and then moved it again like he knew exactly what he was doing. “Take your shoes off, you’re making a mess.”

“Don’t take any pictures of my feet,” Bono said, but he kicked his shoes off all the same. They landed on the floor with a thud, and Bono settled back down. His hair was like ink against the white of the pillows, and Edge didn’t bother directing him. He’d become an old pro at it, and Edge wasn’t entirely sure when the shift had happened. He lifted the camera and waited until Bono’s smile dropped before taking the shot, and he wasn’t close enough.

He came forward, kneeled against the bed and Bono turned to him, and the shutter went off. “It’s extremely unfair,” Edge said. “The camera loves you.”

“No,” Bono said. He turned his head towards the window, exposing his neck, and Edge took the shot.

“It does. Don’t bother denying it.”

Bono hummed, a small smile playing across his face. He brought his hand up, fiddled with his necklace and Edge leaned over to capture his expression. “Are you going to show anyone these?” he asked.

Edge paused, pretended to think it through. “No,” he said. “These are just for me.”

He hadn’t quite meant to word it that way, but when Bono turned to look at him, Edge decided it didn’t matter. He shifted until he was sitting properly on the bed, and Bono was quiet for a while, watching him. His eyes were bright, and Edge was thankful he’d chosen to shoot in colour. “Edge,” Bono said. He fingered the collar of his shirt and raised an eyebrow. “Do you like this shirt?”

Edge didn’t. It was a gaudy thing that bulged around Bono’s stomach in a way that didn’t compliment him in the slightest, but Edge rarely gave his opinion unless it was asked. “I hate it,” he said. He almost expected some attitude in return, but Bono just smiled.

“Hate is a strong word, The Edge.”

“Well, it’s a terrible shirt.”

The smile stayed, and Bono’s hand dipped slightly. He undid the first button, and Edge wasn’t quite sure he’d had enough to drink for this. He’d wanted it, it seemed like forever he’d wanted it, and yet a part of him was tempted to get up and walk out. Bono’s gaze stayed on Edge as he undid the second button. He bit his lip and it was like a different person, and Edge raised the camera. The shutter went off and Bono laughed, and it was so unexpected that Edge just had to laugh along.

Bono didn’t waste time after that; the shirt came off quickly, joining his shoes on the floor, and Bono pulled his knees up, rubbed his thighs and parted his legs, and Edge didn’t quite know where to look. “Take my picture, Edge,” Bono demanded.

Edge swallowed. He set the camera down on the bed and Bono frowned until Edge reached out a hand. He’d seen Bono, seen so much of Bono that he was able to form a picture in his mind, late at night when he just couldn’t bear it anymore. It seemed different, though, and he couldn’t help but touch. Bono drew in a sharp breath when Edge’s fingers brushed his chest, and he asked, “Do you like these pants?”

He sounded so earnest that Edge nearly gave in immediately, but he caught the look on Bono’s face. There was heat, but there was more, and he knew Bono; knew that he could get up and walk out and tomorrow would just be another day, and they’d continue on until the next close encounter. It was an easy out, and they both knew it.

“No,” Edge said, and Bono’s head fell back against the pillows. “They’re far too tight. Leaves nothing to the imagination.”

Bono laughed, and Edge couldn’t stand it any longer. Bono’s lips were whiskey sour, his neck warm with sweat. He sighed, and Edge took it all in.


End file.
